


Practice Shots On Me

by Ash (ashaleighmarie)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, S15 Spoilers, Vacation gays, that's pretty much all this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashaleighmarie/pseuds/Ash
Summary: As long as they're already back on Earth, they might as well enjoy the chance to visit home, right? But not everybody is so eager to get back to their roots. Good thing Grif's offered some alternate plans. Four days in Hawaii. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Bloody Maria

**Author's Note:**

> A perfect drink to start a day of vacation with. Ideally served alongside a wholesome brunch.

From the moment they stepped off of the transport, Grif was going to be holding the reigns of this whole adventure. And they both knew it. So maybe that was a big part of why, despite the admitted appeal of a vacation, accepting Grif’s unexpected invitation to come with him back to his home town had been hesitant on Simmons’ part.

So far, the man had been decently behaved. Even excited. It was a rarity for them to travel anywhere that armor wasn't the default uniform, and now here they were, both clad in their civvies and moments from arriving in Hawaii. Spending large amounts of time on and around a beach. For four days.  _ Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. _ Would there be staring? Not just because of how much of a tourist he was absolutely going to look like, but in general. Were there a lot of soldiers with prosthetics wandering around? Had Grif  _ really _ thought this through?

Before he could really work himself into a proper lather over it all, as he tended to do whether his fears were well-founded or not-- all at once they were disembarking, and any final thoughts he'd had of backing out and going somewhere else for the weekend was tugged out of his reach in favor of the heat of the sun he could already feel waiting for them outside.

He blamed the fact that Grif  _ literally _ grabbed his hand and tugged him off the transport for this, more than anything. How was he supposed to make a clear-headed decision when he was being  _ lugged around _ ?

Despite the crowd of people around them, Grif moved confidently, breezing through security and heading straight for their bags, hefting his own onto his shoulder before  _ finally _ releasing Simmons’ hand to toss him his own duffle. “Oof-” It collided with his chest and made him stagger back a step. “Why couldn't you just  _ hand _ it to me?” he demanded, fumbling to loop his hand through the straps, letting the bag drop to hang at his side.

“Too slow,” Grif said with a shrug, already turning away. Not dismissively, as he might normally have been. Just  _ eager _ . His strides were as long as they could be, still double the speed of the ones Simmons had to take to keep up. It was a speedy pace for the usually-lazy soldier.

Truthfully, Grif had been acting differently since  _ before _ they'd started planning this trip. His behavior had been changed ever since he'd come back from his voluntary isolation on the moon. He sometimes still spoke in hurried bursts, his thoughts mildly disjointed at times and difficult to follow. His OCD had worsened, and some of the mild tics he'd always had, quiet ways of coping with it, had swelled into more noticeable fidgets. He would make messes and clean them up again around himself while mumbling the whole time.

Other moments, he was fully lucid, and seemed to almost act like normal. But small things, things that nobody but Simmons may have even picked up on, were definitely off about him.

As someone who had always pestered the man about his destructive and repugnant behavior, it had been downright impressive the first time he'd witnessed it. Now it was more worrisome than anything. Grif just… wasn't quite  _ Grif _ anymore.

Hopefully this chance to relax would help him to start behaving normally  _ permanently  _ again. Which was, admittedly, another reason why Simmons had agreed to go. Isolation clearly didn't suit Dexter Grif as well as he had always assumed it would.

They cleared the double doors and stepped out into the warm Hawaiian sunshine. When Grif struck out on foot, heading to the right outside past the usual bevy of taxis and rental bikes used to get around, Simmons blinked in surprise, but followed. “Do you really live that close to here?” he asked, occasionally shooting glances up at the sky, the the streets, the  _ everything _ .

Grif grinned back at him. “Only about three miles out.” When the taller soldier ground to a halt to stare directly at him now, eyes owlishly wide, he couldn't help but give in immediately, free hand pressed to his chest as he cackled, halting in his forward progress immediately. “Oh my god, Simmons. Of  _ course _ we're not walking there. I came here to  _ relax _ .”

It wasn't that Simmons wasn't  _ capable _ of walking three miles, or that Grif wasn't either, all things considered. They'd had to hike long distances in the past and they'd all made it in one piece. Mostly….

Still, it was a relief to see Grif hail a cab to carry them down the highway, because it meant this wasn't another example of him not behaving like himself.  _ And _ he didn't have to carry his duffle all the way there and endure the anxiety of  _ will I bump this into someone will they hate me will they fight mewhatifijustleaveithereisitrEALLYTHATIMPORTANT-- _

 

\---

 

The first place they stopped in front of wasn't three miles away. And it also wasn't a house. The colorful sign above the building in fact proclaimed it to be a bakery. “Grif--” he began, but the door was already shut behind him, effectively cutting him off even with the window halfway rolled down. He puffed up slightly, but only got another cheery smile and a thumbs up for his efforts.

“I'll be in and out, Sims, promise. Just hold down the cab for me.” Despite his spluttering attempts at arguing, as usual, he was ignored in favor of whatever ‘mission’ Grif had determined to go on, and soon he was left twiddling his thumbs in the backseat, alone, gradually feeling his face grow hotter and hotter in frustration and embarrassment as the silence drew out longer and longer between himself and the driver.

He had to admit, the smell coming from inside was quite nice. Like sweet, fresh dough and cinnamon. People who came wandering out were clutching cookies, doughnuts, and sacks of goodies that couldn't be identified but were usually causing their packaging to  _ bulge _ around its cargo.

It just figured. Ten minutes at home and Grif was loading up on snacks.

When he returned, he was carrying a similar bag loaded down with pastries of some kind, and as he came close enough to pop open the car door and climb in, Simmons realized that the sweet, doughy, cinnamon smell was definitely traveling with him.

Grif gave the cab driver a different address, leaning back in his seat as they pulled away from the curb and started back off in the direction they'd come from, back toward the airport. Uncurling the top of the bag, the smell wafted out even more strongly than before, and Simmons could feel his mouth water a little.

Health nut or not, there was a definite difference between the shitty processed snacks that Grif normally ate, and something clearly handmade like this. Even a saint might not be able to wholly resist it.

Grif pulled out one of the pastries, a puffy looking doughnut with no hole, coated in sugar and, obviously, cinnamon. He took a bite out of it, leaving crystals of sweetness smeared around his mouth and revealing the soft, airy interior. His tongue darted out immediately, cleaning up the excess.

Simmons purposefully shifted to stare out the opposite window and fought very hard to keep the flush of heat on his cheeks from getting any darker.

Then he felt the dull tapping of one of Grif’s fingers against the side of his face. Schooling his expression, his head turned. “Wha-”

His mouth was suddenly filled with a chunk of the pastry, shoved into place deftly the moment he'd been afforded the opportunity. It was anger now that had his face growing hot, affronted at having Grif literally cram his mouth full of food. And then his brain clued him in to the actual flavor of what was in his mouth, the way it melted on his tongue, sweet and spiced and  _ delicious _ .

Grif looked on triumphantly as Simmons swallowed the mouthful, popping the last of it into his own mouth before he brushed the remnants off his fingers. “Good, huh.”

He cleared his throat. It was difficult to drum back up a proper anger at what had happened, but he had gotten very good at faking it over the years he'd spent in the other soldier’s company.

“It doesn't matter how  _ good _ it is, Grif, you can't just-- just  _ shove _ food in my mouth! You could have just handed it to me, or--!”

Grif waved a hand at him. “You wouldn't have eaten it.” The cab pulled to a stop at the curb once again, and Grif brightened, once again distracted from the beginnings of an argument before it could fully erupt. “Here we are!”

The house was far from impressive. Even without any knowledge of Grif’s past, it was obvious he hadn't exactly come from a lot of money. The exterior was a washed-out shade of pathetic yellow paint, with a long-overgrown yard behind a rickety chain link fence. Half of the roof’s overhang over the front door was lopsided, and it looked like parts of the fence were being held up by cinderblocks. But Grif seemed not to see the imperfections as he bounded up the faded stairs and, after fumbling for a moment, pulled the key for the door from a crack in the overhang, and let himself inside.

Simmons followed several paces behind, feeling his chest flip-flop uncomfortably with too many emotions to name. This was where Grif had grown up. This was where he and his sister had been raised by a single mother until, somehow, he had managed to get himself shipped off to Blood Gulch.

Carefully, he navigated the stairs, uncertain if he should trust them fully even after seeing them take Grif’s full weight without crumbling. The inside was mostly wood, with doors that warped slightly as if from water damage around the bottom, looking as though they didn't quite fit their frames anymore because of it. Wood paneling lined every room, and the only floors that broke the pattern were the tiled floors of the two bathrooms.

It looked as rundown inside as it did from outside. One door was firmly closed, with stickers and banners run across it that made it clear who it belonged to. Grif didn't bother it at all, having paused only briefly to drop his bag of snacks on the kitchen counter before he disappeared down the narrow hallway toward the back of the house, and what Simmons could only assume was his own bedroom.

Which reminded him of another detail that he hadn't fully considered yet. One which had his former blush returning as he trailed after Grif down the hallway.

_ Where exactly am I sleeping here? _

“Come on, dude.” Grif’s call had him picking up the pace, and he hurried past two other open doors: one of the bathrooms, dingy and faded as everything else, and a room that held nothing but half-packed boxes and worn out furniture.

Grif’s room was… very much how Simmons expected it to look. It wasn't a complete garbage pile, but it was… disorganized, cluttered in places. Grif had tossed his duffle onto a squeaky desk chair that was pushed into the corner, and after a moment’s hesitation Simmons placed his with it.

“They have that service for if you're a soldier coming home after a while away, you know? Get your place cleaned up if you don't have someone waiting at home for you. So if anything’s messed up, that's why.” Grif plopped down happily on the bed, perpendicular to how it was meant to be used, and stretched out across half of it, legs dangling over the edge and his head almost off the other end.

“Oh yes, I'm sure any issues are all their fault. It's kind of their whole job to  _ fix _ the mess, Grif.” Simmons stood awkwardly in the doorway, fidgeting for a few seconds, before the other half of the bed was patted, inviting him to sit. Tentatively, he did so, finding the lumpy mattress to be very reminiscent of some of the beds they'd been sleeping in off and on throughout their adventures.

When he didn't move to lay down as well, Grif pushed himself back up with one hand, squinting at him a little. “Are you going to be weird the whole time we're here?”

Simmons stiffened immediately. “What makes you say that? I'm not being weird. We haven't even been here an hour yet.”

Grif rolled his eyes, and his free hand shot out and caught a handful of his loose shirt, hauling him down in a sprawl of pinwheeling limbs and shrieking so that they both lay more diagonally across the mattress now, feet still hanging off into the air.

“Christ, stop--  _ ow _ , watch the elbow, Sims, come on--” Grif grunted as the wind was half-knocked out of him before he finally managed to get the lanky soldier to relax more, half-squashed into the mattress, his face reddened but the fight having leaked out of him like sputtering air from the end of a balloon.

He could hear the occasional passing car outside, a dog barking. People speaking in murmurs as they strolled past the windows along the sidewalk. He swore if he closed his eyes he could almost hear the ocean too. Even though Grif had informed him that the good beaches weren't exactly on his front doorstep.

But there was no muddled shouts of colorful expletives from Sarge, no muttered robotic Spanish from Lopez. Donut wasn't about to burst in and offer to join their game of Twister or offer them post-”game” snacks. There were no Blue soldiers to come storming in with a mission, no rebel leaders, no military, no reporters.

It was just  _ them _ .

Time stretched on around them, and Simmons almost swore that he dozed off at one point. It was the only way to explain how he'd gone from mashed into the bed’s surface from his fall to suddenly being curled on his side on it, longways as it was actually intended to be used, Grif curled across from him, one arm tucked under his head, eyes half-open. Watching him.

Simmons blinked, and then again, and a sheepish smile briefly touched the corners of his mouth before he ducked his head a little. “Sorry.”

“For  _ napping _ ?” There was no disguising that teasing tone. Simmons shoved at his arm once, and then sat up, stretching. The sun was still peeking in through the ramshackle blinds, but it had definitely sunk since the last time he'd looked.

"How long were we-?”

“Simmons.” His mouth snapped shut. Grif yawned, stretching himself, and then pushed himself up onto his feet and off the bed. “Vacation rules. Naps are allowed and encouraged. Nobody is gonna hassle you for enjoying yourself out here. Kinda the whole point.” He held out a hand, and Simmons took it, allowing himself to be hauled up onto his feet.

“All right, all right.” He was going to try to get into the proper vacation mindset. “So what do we do now? Find a hammock and nap again? Eat? Go back to bed?” His tone was supposed to be a little more biting but Grif only grinned at him.

“All in good time, dude. First? We're gonna hit the beach.”


	2. Blowjob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fun party shot, especially if you're looking to impress someone specific. Requires the confidence to pull it off.

Grif could hardly contain his excitement as he came through the front door and skipped the stairs to simply step straight off the small porch and into the grass, walking around toward the side of the house and the small shed that was squeezed in between the worn fencing and the side of the house.

He could hear Simmons following behind him more hesitantly, but the fact that he was following meant he'd already resigned himself to whatever fate Grif had planned. He had a feeling there was going to be a lot of that during the next four days, but the fact that they were even _here_ , that Simmons had actually come _with_ him to Hawaii to begin with meant that he'd already halfway won most of the battles that they might have over any scheduled activities.

Not that Grif generally did a lot of _scheduling_ , but--

He fished the keys for the lock on the door out of their hiding place, tucked into one of the hollows in a brick under several other bricks, as casually stacked as any others in the yard for maximum security. The keys for what was inside were already in his pocket.

He swung the door open wide and stepped inside, crooning softly in genuine affection as one hand smoothed over a well-loved handlebar, moving around beside the motorcycle as the other hand landed on the seat, feeling a _warmth_ building in his chest, thick but not quite stifling. _God_ , he'd missed this thing. It was a very similar emotion to the one he'd felt when they'd first stepped out into the city air of Honolulu.

And to how he'd felt watching Simmons sleep in his bed.

His head shook once, sharply, to get that thought out of the front of his brain. Plenty of time for that shit later. Right now was for _them_.

“Why am I not surprised you own a motorcycle?”

Grif turned, and there he was. Tall, barely able to actually fit in the doorway without ducking down first, his clothes a little rumpled but his eyes sharp as always. Here. _Here_ , in his home, in his things. Not in a canyon, not in a military base, not in the middle of some huge battle or some abandoned planet. _Here_ . They were _both_ here.

He blinked, forcing himself to push that thought train aside as well. His brain got caught in hiccups like that, spirals that didn't always go downward but tended to interrupt his normal thinking. He was getting better at dragging himself back out of the small ones. Almost enough so that the rest of their team seemed to think he was back to normal.

And yet Simmons still stared at him sometimes, as though he _knew_.

“Traffic on the island isn't always kind, Simmons. This baby will get us where we're going way faster than a car would.” He gave the seat a loving pat as his other hand slid down over the cool metal, still a vivid shade of orange after all this time, licked with lines of black paint that traced out the details and curves of the machine.

Simmons rolled his eyes. “And I suppose you don't own anything else we could drive if I said I refused to get on that thing, do you?”

Grif looked around the tiny shed, and then back at Simmons, his eyes almost comically wide. “Fuck, Simmons, I don't see one in here. It must have been stolen.”

A quiet laugh, not quite a snort, escaped from him before he could help it, and Simmons gave his shoulder a shove, fighting hard to keep his own lips from curving into a grin. “Asshole.”

“Come on, dude.” Grif moved further into the shed and retrieved a helmet, pushing it into the other soldier’s hands. “It's perfectly safe. I had a buddy keeping an eye on her for me, giving her check-ups. And you haven't died from me driving you around in anything yet.”

It was clear that Simmons was having a hard time arguing with that, because all he did was narrow his eyes as he took the helmet from him, turning it over in his hands in careful inspection before he tucked it under one arm, sighing heavily in that way he did like he was completely emptying out his lungs in sheer exasperation.

But of course Simmons had to go back inside first to make sure that they had everything they needed before they could actually go.

He insisted on grabbing a few things from his duffle while Grif wheeled the bike out toward the front gate to take a closer look at everything in the light of the sun. His grumbling had been audible all the way back to the front door of the house, but Grif had simply shrugged it off, grabbing a hair tie as he gathered up the loose locks of his hair to keep them out of the way, as much for the drive as for now when he was on his knees inspecting the oil and other levels on his baby, ensuring that she was ready to drive.

When Simmons returned, despite his complaining, it was still with minimal hesitation that he actually strapped on the helmet, watching as Grif confidently straddled the seat and, after another moment of just lovingly running his hands over the bars, hit the ignition.

The motorcycle revved under him, the engine purring as he gave a thrilled whoop and then tossed his head to look back at Simmons. Whatever the maroon soldier saw there, it was apparently enough to get him moving without further issue, walking closer and carefully climbing onto the back of the bike behind him. Almost nervously, he shuffled around, trying to get comfortable, their bodies slotting together closely.

“You know, if we're gonna do this… you're gonna touch me. It's gonna happen.”

“I know!” Flustered immediately, Simmons’ tone spiked upward in pitch. If he looked back, Grif was sure he'd see a blush on his friend’s face as well. “I'm just-- I'm trying to get comfortable, give me a second!”

“Take your time, dude.” Grif couldn't keep the grin out of his tone, and it won him a brief dig against his ribs before he finally felt the full weight of Simmons’ body settling against his back. Two limbs, cyborg and human, twined loosely around his waist, fingers linking together in front of him. He could feel Simmons knees nudging against him.

“A-all right, I'm ready.” Grif could feel his shirt bunching a little bit under his fingers, caught in the ever-tightening grip.

It was cute.

They rolled to the edge of the driveway and then, after a moment to check the empty street, Grif hit the accelerator and they pulled out. A couple short turns put them on the main highway, and soon they were zipping through the city, weaving their way through traffic.

Initially, Grif could feel Simmons’ fingers still clutched tight into his shirt, body jolting and squeezing against him as close as possible, as if he was going to fly off of the seat at any moment. Especially as they switched lanes, darting past cars and swaying semis as they headed for the city limits. But gradually the death grip relaxed a little, and he could feel Simmons’ chin pressing into his shoulder, actually looking out at the buildings as they passed.

And he could hear the soft intake of breath, over the whipping wind, at the first flash of the coast.

As buildings became more scarce, palm trees flourished, and the asphalt became rock and sand and water at its edges instead of concrete. Houses began to be backed by beaches, and then disappeared entirely. Small cliffs and water lapping at the sides of low bridges lead them further around the coast, the bustle of traffic and passersby replaced with the cry of birds and the breeze off the sea.

The sky had hardly begun to fully darken, but it had clearly become evening during their nap, and the night was just beginning to sneak into the edges of things. Shadows of trees lined the highway like uneven railroad tracks in places, while others were bare greenery backed up against stark rocky outcrops.

He could feel Simmons lifting his head, actually looking around now as they flew around curves in the highway following the edge of the island. He could feel the way the fluttering heartbeat against his back had begun to settle a little, though it still beat a strong tattoo harder than usual against his shoulder blade. And then they came around the corner onto a long stretch of highway, and Grif grinned to himself, giving them a moment to enjoy it, before he gunned the engine and they shot forward, ramping up the speed.

Simmons let out a choked sound and latched onto him tight, getting out a strangled, “ _Grif!_ ” that had him laughing against the billowing wind around them. Simmons’ chin was digging in almost painfully into his shoulder now, and Grif could feel the helmet pressing against the back of his head. He eased back on the throttle, letting them slow back down just a little as they eased into the next curve. “ _I hate you!_ ” he heard against his ear, and he just roared with laughter again.

Eventually they slowed and pulled into a parking lot, sliding into a narrow spot near the front marked specifically for motorcycle parking. Grif cut the engine, and for a moment they sat there, bodies still pressed close to one another, before Simmons jolted suddenly, as if electrocuted, and scrambled off and onto his feet.

Grif propped the bike on its kickstand and climbed off as well, stretching his arms over his head. “Well, are all your bits still here?” he asked, brows lifting. “Do we need to go back for a smear of you I left behind?”

Simmons glared at him, but his overall look right now definitely detracted from the sternness of it. He was clad in a loose shirt, red because it seemed to be the primary color of their clothing, personal or otherwise, that had managed to survive each leap they'd made through space from planet to planet and base to base in the last few years. His shorts were plain, but comfortable, the kind that he seemed to have decided were worth getting sandy and possibly destroyed by whatever vacation antics were to come. His hair was flattened in places, mussed in others by the breeze that had begun to pluck at the loose strands, reviving them after being squashed by the helmet.

He looked so out of place, at the edge of a sandy beach with him, his face already just vaguely shiny with the first of what would probably be many layers of sunblock. No doubt thinking about getting sand in his metal parts if the upgrades from Chorus didn't hold up as well as they should, or about the statistical probability of him looking tasty to a shark considering the frequency that metal was actually found in their bellies as much as seal and turtle meat was.

But here he was.

Here _they_ were.

And despite the bickering, they still walked out into the sand, past several others that were out enjoying the end of the day by the water, around the curve of the beach that ended where it had been flattened at the edge into parking lot.

Grif kicked off his shoes once he was satisfied that they were alone and his toes sank into the sand, curling into it. And he took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, and emotion _flooded_ through him.

He plopped himself down onto the sand, heels digging into it now, watching the little furrows they dug into the beach. They were close enough to the shore that the waves almost lapped at his toes. With a contented sigh, he lay back, turning his face toward the sun, arms behind his head.

After a few seconds of silence, he could feel Simmons settling down almost uncertainly next to him. At first he sat, one knee pressing lightly into Grif’s side. Then his legs extended, gradually, until he felt a warm cybernetic limb briefly brush against the side of his ankle.

"Is it always this… peaceful?”  
  
Grif’s mouth curved a little more at the corners. “Nah. Sometimes there’s parties. The beaches closer to where tourists flock never seem to go empty either. Lucky you've got a decent tour guide." His smile widened a bit more. "I know where all the best spots are.”   
  
It was silent again after that, and Grif didn't press immediately for conversation. Silence was nice when it wasn't awkward, when it wasn't lonely, and like this? It was damn near perfect. If not for their nap earlier, he would already be drifting off…   
  
“Yeah.” It was so soft, at first he thought he might have imagined it. “Lucky me.”

 

\---

 

They stayed on the beach until after sunset. Sometimes they lay there in silence, and others they talked. At one point they wrestled briefly in the sand as Simmons _insisted_ that he put sunblock on the patches of skin that were freckled rather than dark, because  _you're going to burn, idiot, that's my skin_. But aside from the occasional person walking past, it was just the two of them. And the waves, and the breeze. The tide rose, and washed against their legs, just barely dampening the hems of their shorts.

“-- _and_ he sounded like, totally different from me, right?”

“Dude, if I had to make a split judgement, I'd have gone for him. But I _had_ to be sure.”

“Nobody else thought so!” Simmons threw up an arm, gesticulating wildly. “They kept telling me how much we were alike the _whole_ time we were there!”

“Nah.” Grif’s foot was propped up on one knee, staring up at the stars streaked across the sky. “I definitely knew which of you was which. Immediately. They're just idiots.” After how long they'd been gone, how long he'd spent trapped in silence with their voices - _all_ their voices, but one even more than all the rest - echoing in his head?

Oh yeah, he'd known which was which.

All at once, his stomach rumbled noisily, demanding his attention. Grif pushed himself upright, laying a hand over his belly. “Shit. I'm starving.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. Grif couldn't exactly see it, but he _knew_ it was happening. “I'm surprised you didn't drag along your snacks you bought earlier. Or a picnic or whatever it is you'd normally do.” The ‘ _if I wasn't here.’_ went unsaid, but they both heard it.

“Well, normally I’d have either brought a cooler or planned ahead with some takeout, yeah. But we can improvise.” He rocked himself up onto his feet, and dusted himself off. Sand clung to his legs and feet, crusted on with the sea water, but he knew it would rub off in time.

Simmons fussed a little more over it before he seemed willing to move far, getting to his feet and running his palms all the way down to his calves to try and shake off most of the sand that clung to him before he was satisfied. Grif waited patiently, scratching at the sand that still clung to his scalp, loosening his ponytail to shake it out and do it up again in the meantime.

“I can only assume your motorcycle has seen more than it's fair share of sand in its time.” Simmons began walking, but slowly, clearly ready to move but also not wanting to get too far ahead without Grif.

“No duh, Simmons.” He grabbed his shoes and trotted off behind him, steering Simmons with a casual arm around the waist away from where they'd parked. He felt the way Simmons tightened up somewhat from the contact, but he also didn't screech or pull away. “There's a place close enough to walk to from here. Couple places really.”

Once they reached pavement Grif brushed the sand off his feet a little more and then slid his shoes back on. Sand between the toes while trapped in footwear wasn't the best by-product of a beach trip, but after so long away, even that almost felt nice.

The roads were quiet, but the dull roar of a dozen conversations happening at once could be heard around the corner as they walked, still hip to hip. It was almost like a sports bar, but without the usual flash of lights and logos and paraphernalia in glossy windows. Different place, same scene. Sturdy stone walls took their place, but inside people buzzed and glassware clattered and music played just below the rest of the din.

“You're not driving us back while _drunk_ , Grif. Especially not on a motorcycle.” Simmons had dug in his heels a little bit when he actually realized what they were approaching, but the arm around his waist kept him moving forward, if at a slightly slower pace.

Grif rolled his eyes. “We're not getting _wasted_ , Simmons, give me some credit. We're gonna pick up some food and take it back to the house.” Although…. _one_ drink definitely wouldn't hurt, right?

Grif only let his arm finally slide away from Simmons when the crowd refused to let them pass side by side, nudging past cheery people chattering animatedly among themselves to get up to the bar. He didn't recognize the young bartender, but they still struck up conversation easily, and Grif ordered several plates of food, knowing that among them would be something Simmons would eat, and that he'd happily polish off whatever went untouched.

Hefting his body up onto one of the barstools, Grif waited until Simmons had joined him before he settled his arms on the bartop comfortably, considering the wall of bottles and possibilities before them.

“Is this part of the vacation tour?” he asked, but he didn't sound overly upset, which Grif was a little surprised by. This kind of place was hardly his scene. Maybe because he knew they weren't hanging around for too long?

“Technically.” He gave a hum, and then propped his cheek on his fist as he turned to look at Simmons, grinning suddenly, toothy as a shark. “Have you ever had a Blowjob?”

With the din around them, it was impossible for anyone else to have heard them. But Simmons still went red as a tomato all at once and spluttered. “ _W-what_?! Grif-!”

Trick question.

“Like the _shot_ , Sims. You know, a Blowjob shot.” His grin widened. “Come on, you have to know what that is.”

Simmons’ color deepened a shade further. His ears had begun to look a little tinted too. “I _know_ what that is, and _no_ ! Of course I've never done one, it's-- it's just going to make a mess. Why wouldn't you just drink it properly?” _And call it something else_. Grif could almost read that thought right off the top of his brain.

“Because the fun’s in doing it right. Come on, it'll be great. I'll show you.” Simmons’ protests were drowned out as Grif flagged down the bartender and requested a pair of the shots, complete with an eyebrow wiggle that had the young man grinning at him before he moved off to make them.

In a few moments, the pair of shot glasses were placed between them, topped with a generous helping of whipped cream. Grif pulled his closer, and arched a brow at Simmons until he too reached out for the glass and brought it toward his seat.

“Grif, I'm _not_ doing this, you asshole, just-”

But Grif had already placed his hands behind his back. “Watch and learn, Simmons.” The man made a noise vaguely reminiscent of a teapot threatening to overboil, which was how Grif knew he was enjoying this despite his embarrassed complaining to the contrary.

“Look, I'll take the shot, just- Grif, don't- you're gonna--”

In a fluid motion, Grif ducked down and closed his mouth around the shot glass, and shot his head back, downing its contents. He didn't spill a drop.

Reaching up to free the glass from his mouth, he set it on the counter, satisfied, and licked an errant drop of Bailey’s and cream from the corner of his mouth.

Simmons was staring.

After about fifteen seconds of this, Grif cleared his throat. “You gonna finish that?”

Simmons blinked, and blinked again, then looked down at his own shot. In a rush, he suddenly scooped it up and threw it back, not the way Grif had done but still downing it all on the first go. The glass hit the bartop again, and he was met with a challenging glare. “I _told_ you that you aren't driving us home _drunk_ , dumbass.”

Grif found it difficult to come up with a suitably snippy response when his brain had simply latched into the word _home_ and begun repeating it over and over on a happy little loop.

By the time their food was up, Simmons’ blush had faded for the most part, and they walked back to the motorcycle bickering as usual. And if neither of them made a big deal about how much more comfortable the ride back home was, bodies pressed snugly together with arms linked around his chest, then that was just fine with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're running through a itinerary here. Simmons would be proud. The explicitness is coming eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is in fact self-indulgent grimmons fluff. Yes, I am going to update slowly depending on work and my mental state. But I do intend to finish this eventually.


End file.
